“Peautiful, peautiful!” he murmured. “Hey, put she smells petter than floores!”
He did not leave the meat to cook too long, but soon had it out and laid upon a nicely warmed, flat piece of slaty stone, which served him for a plate as he began to eat with the greatest of gusto.
“Hey, put she is chuicy,” he muttered, as he munched away without paying much heed to a bit or two of cinder adhering to the meat and sounding unpleasant as he crunched them between his strong, white teeth.
“Peautiful!” he murmured again, as he got about half-way through. “She’s thenking it would pe petter to begin cooking mair so as to be retty when they come pack.”
So he placed another piece on the fire, and then went on eating his second snack so slowly and deliberately, spending a certain amount of time the while in watching and turning the cooking piece that it was beautifully done by the time he had finished; and now came a terrible test of his powers of endurance. He looked at the frizzled slice, then away from it, then back at it; and it tempted him so sorely that he got up and walked away.
“She’s letting the fire oot,” he cried, and ran back to stand looking down at it. “Nay, put she’d spoil a gude cooking fire if she put on anny coal. She’ll cook ta rest.”
No sooner said than done. A fresh piece was put on the glowing cinders, and the newly cooked slice placed upon the bit of shale.
“She’ll chust spoil if she gets caud,” muttered Watty. “The teer-fat goes hart and stickits to the roof of her mouth, an’ it’s a pity to spoil such bonnie meat.”
He gave his shock head a rub, and looked round again, wondering whether there were any bears likely to come and disturb him; but, as far as he could see, he was quite alone in the grand solitude, and he uttered a deep sigh.
“She never said she was to cook anny meat,” he said, “an’ it such a pity to let it spoil. She’ll chust eat this wee pit, an’ they’ll pe pack py the time the nex’ pit is tone.”